But Call Me Betsy

In my fall fiction writing class, a common suggestion during critiques went something like: "I couldn't tell what kind of haircut she had...I wanted to know what color her eyes were. I just couldn't tell what she actually looked like!" Sometimes, another person might  try to help the writer along toward a more concrete description by suggesting that the central character give us this information by catching sight of her reflection in passing mirror or window, or in the bend of shiny spoon, or the wavery pool of a lake. Whenever someone asked wanting to writer to pause to describe the protagonist, I wanted so suggest that we refer back to any of the published stories we'd read for class. Very seldom does E. Annie Proulx have a character stop and ponder the amber sheen of her own eyeballs or the flowiness of her blond hair.  Raymond Carver, though he may describe the blind man in "Cathedral," doesn't pause to ponder his own bloodshot eyes in the b...

My friend Janell is also into the humiliation of pets for personal gain. Here is the evidence: I also got some good news today. I won first prize in Zoetrope 's all -story contest, which means some money for me and possibly action from literary agents. My story as chosen from 2,200 entries, so I feel good about that. It's a story I wrote last year in one of my Penn MLA classes. As with anything, I only allow myself to get excited for about 35 seconds, and then, I'm usually like, Well, but that's in the past. What's next? But maybe I'll try to enjoy this for a little while. The other thing it does is remind me that I really need to be sending my work out. Not to sound like a jerk, but I usually get a fairly positive response from my fiction. For this particular story, I even received a nice rejection from Tin House earlier this fall. So, you never know--what one journal might reject, another might really like. It also makes me self-conscious about my b...

Ernesto proved no easier to reindeer-ify. I promise that one of these days, I will write a post with some substance and no cats. Until then, maybe you can vote on your favorite.

Henri is 105 years old, but that didn't prevent me from forcing him to wear antlers. Please do not report me. Mostly, it was his pride that was damaged.

Leigh Ann has graciously loaned me a cat torture device---a set of reindeer antlers with a jingley bell attached. Emma Carol was the first victim. This is the best of about 500 attempts. Stay tuned for Henri (Comet/Vomit) and Ernesto (Dasher).

Here is a photo of what 65 percent of people are doing on the train (myself included). I wonder--is he surreptitiously taking a picture of me at the same time that I'm snapping his?